This Honourable House (4 page)

Mark turned away slowly as he fastened his tie, and addressed his next remarks to the wall. ‘It’s exploitation. You don’t intend it like that, but it is. A youngster comes into your circle, and catches your eye. You’ve made it clear you don’t believe in celibacy, you won’t go more than a few weeks without a man, but they must be cute. There’s quite a lot of rivalry among certain types to come and work for you. To make it as far as here,’ he indicated the rumpled bed behind him, ‘is quite a coup. But in the end you’re their employer. If you were to make a pass and got turned down, or worse, laughed at, they could get the boot.’

‘No. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Please. Get wise. There’s the anxiety that if they refused you, then wanted to leave, you wouldn’t write a reference. Or you could make it tough to move elsewhere. Again, loving you as I do, I’m certain the idea of such vindictiveness wouldn’t occur to you. But outside it looks too bloody likely.’

‘That’s bullshit.’ Diane leaned against the bedside table, frowning. ‘Tell me, did you feel exploited? Do you now?’

‘A little,’ Mark admitted. ‘And, to be honest, I calculated that if you were pleased with
all
my
efforts, you’d help me get on. That’s why I didn’t let myself think twice about deceiving Susie, so perhaps I’m as much to blame as you. You did help, loads, and I’m terribly grateful. But you’ll have to find somebody else. I’m out of here.’

‘And if I’ve got any sense my next lover’ll be a fat-arsed fifty-five-year-old with a heart condition and a pension? Oh, come on.’

The young man bent down and retrieved his shoes from under the bed. He did not reply.

Diane softened. ‘I don’t see,’ she said slowly, ‘how my extending the hand of friendship to remarkable blokes like you could in any way be called exploitation. You’re accusing me of manipulating you, of having put you in an impossible bind. That is such an offensive suggestion.’

‘Is it? Tell me, Diane, when President Clinton got caught with a twenty-one-year-old intern, Monica Lewinsky, who did you blame?’

‘Him, of course. I’m on record on that. He was the guilty party. He seduced her. Silly cow that she was, she was in no position to run away.’

‘Exactly. I rest my case.’

After Mark had left, Diane stood irresolute, bath towel in hand. She pulled the bed-sheets untidily into place, opened the curtains and unlatched a window. The light air that blew in dispelled the lingering odours of lovemaking and brought with it the piny smell of leaves that had spent the day in the sun. Down in St James’s Park a military band was playing. Starlings rose in squawking flurries as the shadows lengthened. She had a bare half-hour to get ready.

After a shower, as she dressed swiftly, dabbing on perfume and makeup, Diane’s mind fluttered and protested over Mark’s comments and would not settle, much like the fractious birds in the eaves. Did he truly mean it, that the affair was finished? Next time she touched his shoulder, or rang his private line and proposed going over a briefing paper together, would he refuse, however politely? Was he about to become part of the past, along with every other handsome, virile youth whose performance in bed had thrilled her? And did that mean she would have to cast her roving eye about, and find somebody new?

But, as he had pointed out, dalliance was far more dangerous now than it had been. If Mark was correct that her tastes were widely discussed, he had done well to keep his name out of the press. Perhaps they’d simply been lucky. But luck could vanish in an instant. Mark was right: chasing men, and especially junior staffers, had become a risky enterprise.

It meant, paradoxically, that the case for suing the
Globe
was strengthened. The article was such a mishmash of snide invention, so devoid of fact, that an apology would serve as an example to other papers. She was vulnerable and had to make herself less so. A solidly backed threat to Betts and his ilk might keep the trash-peddlers at bay for some years. To let them get away with such a scurrilous piece would imply either that she didn’t care or, worse, that she didn’t dare challenge their innuendo. To protect herself, she had little option but to start proceedings, and fight to win.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, as the lipstick smudged. She wiped it off and tried again, as the image consultants, whose ministrations she had so resisted, had shown her. ‘I’m going to be late, as usual. If the press alleged that Diane Clark was well-meaning, scatty and found adjustment to the top flights of public life tricky, I couldn’t sue. They’d be spot on.’

The bell rang. The driver announced that he had ministerial boxes for her; could he bring them up? Hastily Diane flew round the living room, trying to conceal the evidence of the afternoon’s dalliance, then pressed the intercom button to admit him. A thick-set man in his forties entered, averted his eyes from the bedroom and set the heavy boxes on the floor by her desk.

She locked up and followed him down, hoping that the blue silk outfit was suitable for the event and rehearsing in her mind the remarks due after the dinner. She nodded ‘good evening’ on the stairs to the elderly couple who lived above her; they were returning home laden with shopping. At
the front entrance she paused. ‘Dave, can I ask you something?’

‘Certainly, madam.’ He drew back his shoulders in the plain grey suit. He had been a driver in the Royal Corps of Signals; the government car service was an obvious step to take into Civvy Street.

‘Do you think I should be more discreet with my private life, now that I’m a Cabinet minister?’

The man’s eyes popped. ‘I – I couldn’t begin to say, madam,’ he stammered.

‘Am I being watched the whole time? That’s what I mean.’

‘Well, madam,’ the ex-soldier recovered his composure, ‘if I were you, I should act as if I was.’

‘Hmm. That’s difficult.’ Diane hesitated. ‘Dave, you married?’

‘I am, madam. Three kids, and a missus that’d cut my balls off if I strayed.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Diane caught the man’s eye, and they both half smiled. ‘Oh, Lord, Dave. If I’d realised what was entailed, maybe I’d never have started out on this path. I could have been a college lecturer and worked a twenty-hour week and had long holidays and screwed my best students. Instead I’m an Aunt Sally for every frigging journalist, and I have to
behave
.’

‘Yes, madam,’ the driver said, and chuckled softly. ‘Front seat or back, madam?’

It was not till much later in the evening that, flushed with wine, Diane returned to the flat, made a pot of coffee and settled at her desk with the red boxes. Inside the top one was a first draft of the
social-security
review. It gave her a headache just to flick through the pages. The new government had promised to abide by the budgetary restrictions of the previous incumbents for at least two years. With such a pledge no extra spending was possible; but without it the punters would have taken fright. The election would have been lost, as voters’ fears of the spendthrift tendency would have outpaced an increasing liking for the man who was now Prime Minister.

‘We are stuck,’ Diane scribbled crossly in the margin, ‘with the budget we inherited.’ She saw, with a wry smile, that she was already using ‘we’ to mean the government, as if it were a seamless continuum. ‘Any action requiring largesse will have to wait. The legislative programme is also tight, with House of Lords reform taking precedence. So please fillet out those possibilities that
don’t
require either new money or new laws, and I will consider them. One page of A4 only, please.’

That was how the big issues got deferred. Given the broad sweep of the review, there must be enough minor proposals to keep junior ministers occupied. Diane marked up one or two, more as illustrations than as instructions. She was determined not to become demoralised:
force majeure
meant they could not do everything at once, and would jeopardise the whole Project if they tried. ‘And if I protested,’ Diane muttered to the photo of Mandela, ‘I’d get the sack, pronto. But if I stay, we have some chance of keeping our consciences intact.’

Midnight came and went, the coffee pot emptied. In the bottom of the third box was a stack of buff folders from her constituency secretary, mostly letters prepared for her signature. The same old complainants. Mrs Cartwright was still worried about her dripping tap: a letter to the council should suffice. Mr Heath way had kids throwing stones at his window. He would not accept that if he ignored his tormentors they might pester someone else. Did he need a sympathetic social worker? Was that the answer? Would anyone in the local office take any notice of him? He was lonely. Maybe the British Legion could help. Diane rubbed her eyes, tired.

One last folder. This time, she brightened. It contained the applications to replace Mark on her personal staff. The advertisements had been placed promptly, for his resignation was inevitable, now that he was an MP himself. Perhaps she should have anticipated his departure as lover also, but it was still a painful blow. To be honest, his success at the hustings had been unexpected, a wonderful surprise on the crest of the electoral wave that had swept away so many of the previous government’s supporters. Several of the new arrivals had cherished only the faintest hope. Now Mark had left not
only a gap in her workforce but also, if he stuck to his word, in her bed. The rejection hurt.

On the other hand, replacements were available. Diane began to read.

She could not take them in. So many excellent candidates. Twenty in total, including five females. A single post was in the offing. Normally she would have glanced at the girls’ CVs and tossed them aside with a twinge of guilt, maybe sent a scribbled note of encouragement. She would have scrutinised the men’s with more care, starting with the photographs. She would try to imagine them in the flesh, wonder whether any would be amenable and how they might respond. But the savour of the chase had gone.

She picked up her diary and earmarked a spare morning. Her secretary could do the preliminaries. On a Post-it note she wrote, ‘Pick the best half-dozen and ask them to come in for interview Tuesday next. I’m sure they’re all marvellous. Thanks.’

Then she shoved the papers back into the folder, closed and locked the last red box, and went to bed.

Christine lay still. The sheets felt clammy against her hot skin. The air-conditioning hummed an invitation to roll over and close her eyes again, but she was not sleepy. Beside her lay the prone body of her husband. He moved frequently in bed but would not wake, if previous experience were any guide, for another two hours.

Outside it was getting light. Parakeets chattered in the palm trees. A faint clatter down the corridor in the service alcove heralded room-service breakfast. Christine tried to remember what time they had ordered theirs for, and wondered whether pancakes with blueberries and sour cream had been a sensible request. Fresh pineapple and mango would have been better for them both. If he continued eating too much Benedict would need a crash diet the moment they got home. On the other hand, maybe a little solidity would not go amiss: it would help confirm the picture of a contentedly uxorious man.

Christine shifted restlessly. The room felt too warm. She longed to throw off the bedclothes and spread her naked limbs out over the bed, but any sudden movement would disturb Benedict. Let him sleep. The desired image, the one that mattered, would not be aided by black circles under the eyes on their return.

The image. Why did it keep floating through her mind? Why did she have such a precise idea, down to the last visual detail, of how they would appear to photographers in the arrivals hall at Heathrow? The matching ‘his and hers’ luggage in brown leather. The linen suits, stylishly crumpled after the long flight. Benedict would have to be reminded to shave before the plane landed. The light tan, the result of doggedly nagging her husband to strip off. His fair skin, he protested mildly, disliked strong sun. A honeymoon on the Scottish moorlands might have been more in his line, but that would have left him even paler than usual and would have marked him permanently as lacking trendiness. One Prince Charles was enough. It would have marred the overall package, and that would never do.

She leaned on one elbow and gazed down at her sleeping spouse. He shifted position again, and snatches of unintelligible words escaped his lips. That was what had disturbed her sleep.

Her efforts to spruce him up were mostly greeted with mild objections, but after a short while, when she quietly explained the changes she proposed – only small matters, the sort of trivia that weighed with other people but not with them – he acquiesced, normally with good grace. He was not accustomed to so much attention being paid to the impression he made. He had spent far too much time in the company of other young Turks engrossed in politics. Intellectual, eager and committed they might be, anxious to put across the issues, but their notions of what was convincing dress and behaviour in public left much to be desired.

For modern politics was about more than issues, as Benedict was ruefully willing to accept. A substantial part of what the electorate liked was
image
, pure and simple, but its creation required skills as complex as any astronaut’s. In the ten-second burst he might get on the evening TV news, as big an impact as possible had to be made. The eye registered before the ear, and often only a garbled
half-sentence
emerged after the editing. Sometimes they did not broadcast his words at all, merely a voiceover from the presenter as Benedict mouthed silently, helpless. Never mind the issues; the audience would notice his tie, the colour of his shirt, his manner, the lift of an eyebrow, and make snap judgments on that.

The new Prime Minister had grasped that essential fact before many others in his party. His hair had been cut shorter and kept that way. The suits had become
de rigueur
, but standard,
non-threatening
. He was never seen without a plain shirt and sober tie – no pinstripes or loud colours – except in the company of his young children, when instead he sported a knitted sweater.
Always
. The message that he was a loving and responsible father for his own kids and thus to be trusted by the whole nation was communicated subliminally by Fair Isle patterns, corduroy trousers and a shy,
embarrassed smile. Even cynics were full of admiration.

To everyone’s astonishment he had even managed to bolster his support for family values by putting his own wife in the family way. For the fifth time, which did seem a mite excessive. Downing Street, which had harboured Ted Heath’s grand piano and the tinkle of Margaret Thatcher’s Sevres porcelain, would thrill to the sound of a gurgling baby. The nation’s grandmothers sighed with pleasure and the poll ratings jumped accordingly.

Previous opposition leaders had turned up their noses at image-makers, to their and their party’s detriment. One had appeared at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Day in a scruffy, unfastened Duffel coat and no hat. A noted pacifist, he had meant no disrespect to the dead, but television viewers were appalled. Such a man could never be put in charge of the nation’s security. He was a loser.

The Welshman who followed him had ginger hair, a high colour and freckles. In themselves they were not a gross handicap, but he was vain, and tried to hide his baldness by combing long strands of hair from one ear across to the other. Caught in an unkind breeze at the seaside, his Brylcreemed locks took flight. The resulting photos emphasised, as nothing else could, that he sought to hide what he lacked. When subsequently he was caught on film falling over on the beach as the tide came in, his lack of sure-footedness became his bane. He, too, led his party to disaster.

The icon for all parties was Margaret Thatcher. Christine, to her delight, had been compared to her more than once. But when she had arrived at the House Margaret had been a brunette, not a blonde. The peroxide had come later. So had the deepened voice, and the sexy little twist to the mouth. Christine had seen early footage when she was first elected to the leadership. Then, her nerves showed in a constant clearing of the throat at the end of each high-pitched sentence and a
frightened-rabbit
flicker in the eyes. But once the Right Honourable Member for Finchley had made it to Number Ten, she took advice. Out went the fussily patterned frocks with their complicated necklines. Off came a stone in weight, though nobody ever mentioned it. Down floated the voice. Up went the skirt length; in came navy suits that showed off her slim legs. The Iron Lady, product both of a steely character and a chunk of splendid PR, was born.

Christine slid out of the hot bed and padded into the bathroom. She stood for several minutes gazing into the mirror. No wrinkles yet; the hint of a smile line exactly where she wanted it. An alarm clock announced that it was six-thirty. Still not time to get up.

She brushed her teeth. She was not averse to using her mouth and tongue in sex, as they had tried again last night. It seemed rude to rise and clean her teeth immediately afterwards. She had noticed that Benedict’s body language, when he kissed her down
there
, indicated that he would like to wash his mouth at once, but she did not let him; she held him to her, and murmured gentle words, and he relaxed a bit, until it was time to try something else.

So much of this was new to him – that was plainly obvious. Christine was loath to admit to her husband that she was an experienced player: to do so might have entailed too many explanations, none appropriate on a honeymoon. She had no wish to talk about old lovers and their styles, so anything she introduced had to be paraded as her own spontaneous idea, or something any healthily adventurous female would do with a man she fancied. That was pretty close to the truth, anyway. The veil was to be drawn over Benedict’s innocence, or it was to be portrayed between them as an attractive trait. He had been so engrossed in politics that sexual activity had not featured much in his life. He had never been in love before, he had told her, and she believed him. He was thrilled and amazed that she had accepted his proposal to be his wife. She believed that, too. Wherever she led in bed, he would follow. He was determined to satisfy her.

His determination was not in question, Christine reflected, as she rinsed and replaced the toothbrush. Whatever Benedict set his mind to he would achieve, whatever it took. It was his ability that gave rise to the niggle of concern.

Her bed had been made by nobody but herself. And she would lie on it. Nobody as sweet, as dear, as
interesting
as Benedict had ever crossed her path before. So many other men, and most women, had flitted past who were so boring that their presence in the same room was a trial. But her and Benedict’s tastes and views were miraculously well matched, and they hugely enjoyed each other’s company. She was impressed that he intended to get himself into the front rank, and was keen to encourage him in every step. If they were compared with the Clintons, or with other political marriages where the curious asked, ‘What
does
she see in him?’ or ‘Why on earth does she stand by him?’ Christine Ashworth took it as a compliment.

This way, of course, she could enjoy the fruits of success without having to go through the motions herself, but her support of Benedict was unselfish. They had become friends, close and affectionate, before anyone in the media had noticed. Then the question of marriage had been mooted, and both had found it beguiling. By then they were seldom away from each other for more than a few days, and each would admit with increasing warmth to missing the other greatly during those absences. It was not quite clear who had wooed whom, and it didn’t matter. They loved each other, they had the same outlook and objectives, and that was all that counted. This was what made her tick.

Christine slipped back into bed. Benedict was still whispering to himself, his eyes tight shut. She let her mind roam again to when they would be going home. They were to live in his flat. It was large enough, and convenient for the Commons and for her company, whose headquarters were in Whitehall Place, an address that would impress clients, though naturally she would avoid anything too high profile.

The flat’s decor needed attention: it was much too masculine. While Benedict was tied up at the House, Christine would give it some thought and devise colour schemes. Nothing too elaborate, just something brighter, less drab, and more suited to the private entertaining that would be required for his career and hers.

They must get some decent paintings, or at least prints. Benedict’s taste in wall decoration ran, like that of many busy MPs, to posed snaps of himself with various dignitaries. He had installed framed photos of college days, where he was surrounded by other students in gowns, on graduation day and the like. Even when the other participants included well-known faces such as Andrew Marquand’s that one might discreetly point out to guests, Christine found them too dull for words. They would have to go.

Beside her, Benedict stirred and opened one eye. ‘What time is it?’ he murmured.

She told him, and touched his hand. He let her fingers rest on his wrist for a moment, then slowly withdrew and rolled over, away from her. But not before, half-asleep, he spoke again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. She nodded without reply, and let him return to his troubled sleep.

Tuesday at ten was not the most convenient timing. He would have to ask for the morning off work, without saying why. It was risky to let it be known that he was chasing another post, not with a rival company but outside the City. That might jeopardise everything, if he was not successful.

Edward Porter reread the cream letter with the embossed green portcullis. ‘Thank you for your application for the post advertised in the
Guardian
,’ it read. ‘We should be grateful if you could attend for interview … Please bring copies of university certificates, testimonials, etc. For your information the post will be in the parliamentary office of the Rt Hon. Diane Clark.’

The sentences made him catch his breath even though he had them by heart. The original advert had stated baldly that a vacancy had arisen on the private staff of a leading member of the government. For security reasons and to deter time-wasters the name had not been published, though when he telephoned a secretary had been happy to hint that it was a woman. In fact he was delighted that it was Ms Clark. Diane, as everyone called her. A more controversial, outspoken and vigorous employer could not be imagined. The very thought made his pulse race with excitement.

Edward smoothed down his dark hair. A glance in the mirror showed a slim man of above average height with pale clear skin, a square jaw and a nose turning aquiline. He was smooth-shaven, had short neat hair and wore rimless spectacles to read. He favoured grey or navy blue suits,
single-breasted
without pinstripes, and a silk tie in his school colours. It was a uniform suitable for a man in his position, but flamboyance was not his style.

He began to plan the days ahead meticulously. He would have a hair trim on Monday: that would have to be booked. He would tell his supervisor that he had a dental appointment on Tuesday, and stay late the evening before to leave no cause for complaint. He would even return to the office holding the side of his mouth and talking oddly. His chances of getting this post must be slim: there would be hundreds of keen applicants, many better qualified than he was. Best to treat it as a rehearsal for the next opportunity that came up. Edward was suddenly determined to move from his City desk, and as soon as possible.

On any objective assessment his lack of confidence was well founded. He had not read history or politics or sociology or any related subject at college, but law. At that time, a career at the bar had seemed glamorous and held out the prospects of both intellectual stimulus and financial reward. But somehow he had drifted into the commercial side and found himself appearing in civil cases in which one large corporation was suing another for an exorbitant sum. His days had revolved around the small print of contracts that nobody else ever read. Success meant a million-pound invoice presented to the losers, or perhaps to both. Increasingly he had to manufacture an interest in his clients’ doings and the outcome of cases. It did not help that, with only half his mind engaged, he was exceptional at it. Regular clients (and some were frequent litigants) demanded his services. The bonuses were handsome. The senior partner slapped him on the back at the Christmas party. His team was responsible for a significant chunk of the firm’s billing. His salary reflected his usefulness: he had more money than a single man with few outside interests could easily spend. But the work was boring beyond endurance